


Disarm

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: 2x06, Angst, F/M, Smut, Spoilers, The King of the Delta Blues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: “Sometimes, I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”He was this wrecked, this raw, this open once before—in 1954, holding a detonator in one hand and a gun in the other as he told her he prayed for answers and ended up there. But his gun is holstered now, and there’s no bomb except the one inside her, ticking down every minute, building to...she doesn’t know.It terrifies her. The journal. Fate.Flynn.(He looks at her like she holds the world in the palm of her hand and it makes her want to run.)





	Disarm

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the sneak peek for 2x06. I'm trying to manage my expectations and yet.

Flynn talks and Lucy can’t breathe. 

It’s too much. The journal, Flynn, this thing between them—it’s too much. Too fast. Too overwhelming. 

She stripped herself down, laid herself bare to Wyatt after getting back from 1918, in a trunk in the 1950s, by a pool in 1941. She opened herself up and leapt into the unknown, assuming he’d be there to catch her when she fell. Instead, Jessica came back, Wyatt vanished, and Lucy hit the ground. Hard. 

She can’t do it again. Not when the sting of it all is so fresh. Not when she has to listen to Wyatt and Jessica at night while still remembering what it felt like when it was her he was touching, kissing, loving. 

_Love_.

She sees it in Flynn. In the way he looks at her, cautious and hopeful and concerned. She can feel the weight of it, even when it’s clear he’s trying not to show it. She can hear it in his voice when he talks about the journal, about how it stopped being just a tool to stop Rittenhouse and became something else. A connection. A window into her very soul. 

“Sometimes, I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”

He was this wrecked, this raw, this open once before—in 1954, holding a detonator in one hand and a gun in the other as he told her he prayed for answers and ended up there. But his gun is holstered now, and there’s no bomb except the one inside her, ticking down every minute, building to...she doesn’t know. 

It terrifies her. The journal. Fate. _Flynn_. 

(He looks at her like she holds the world in the palm of her hand and it makes her want to run.)

Anger is easy. Lashing out is right. Because Lucy can’t breathe and he’s too close and his voice— 

“What do you want from me, Flynn?” She snaps. “You don’t know me.”

It’s a lie. She knows it is as soon as she says it. She knows he does.

That’s the most terrifying part of all. Being known. If he knows her, he has the power to hurt her. And she just has to trust that he won’t. Trust—with her own shattered, mangled ability to do so in her current state. She can’t. She won’t. 

(She trusts him with other things. She trusts him to have her back, to keep her safe from Rittenhouse, to work with them all. But trusting him with herself is a different thing entirely.)

Flynn blanches as if she’s stabbed him. Lucy refuses to feel guilty.

“Well, I guess we’re having our own awkward moment right now,” he replies, careful and controlled. 

It’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want him sad. She doesn’t want him careful. She wants him angry. She wants to put them back to where they were a year ago, when she didn’t know they were technically on the same side, when fighting with him was familiar. 

She knows how to fight with him. She doesn’t know how to do...this. How to accept his help. His concern. His love. 

“I don’t need your help,” Lucy says. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“No?”

 _We need you more_. She said it weeks ago in a prison infirmary, and she’d been referring to the team, the mission, but not exclusively. Not entirely. At the time, she’d wanted him to read into it what she hadn’t said— _I need you_. Now, she wishes she hadn’t. 

“Not where my personal life is concerned,” she replies. “We’re not friends, Flynn.”

Flynn’s jaw ticks, but he still doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“It won’t work, you know,” he says. 

“What won’t?”

“Pushing me away.” His gaze is steady, his voice sure, and the aching pieces of her want nothing more than to fall into his arms and let him soothe her. But she’s done that before. 

_I’ve lost everything._

_You haven’t lost me._

Wyatt had been sure when he said that. Sure and solid and the steadiest thing in her life. And now, he’s gone, and here’s Flynn. Flynn, who looked at her just as steadily as he is now back in 1780 when he told her that if he got his family back, he would walk away. Flynn who still wears his wedding ring, but calls her his wife for covers without hesitation. Flynn, who watches her, who supports her, who is there before she even realizes she needs someone most of the time. 

There are things Lucy could say that would push him away, regardless of what he thinks. But she’s not cruel enough to resort to using his family to win an argument. Once was enough for that. 

Instead, she reaches out and shoves him. 

Flynn doesn’t move, so she stands up and tries again. Still, he remains rooted to the floor, solid as a statue. When she tries a third time, he catches her hands. 

“Lucy.” His eyes, his voice, his hands—everything is too soft. Too gentle. Too understanding. 

“Why are you doing this?” Lucy asks.

His thumb ghosts over her knuckles, delicate, but unmistakably deliberate.

“You didn’t give up on me,” Flynn replies. “Maybe I’m returning the favor.” 

She cracks. 

Lucy rips her hands from his, grabs his lapels, and kisses him. It’s rough, biting, bruising—far more a fight than a kiss. A challenge. A dare. She wants to devastate him, ruin him the way she feels ruined. But, despite her assumption that he would, Flynn doesn’t freeze. He gives as good as he gets, stealing her breath in an entirely new way when he licks into her mouth and tangles his tongue around hers. 

_Sometimes, I feel like I know you better than you know yourself._

(It’s hard to be afraid of this when she can’t even think. She’s spent too much time thinking lately anyway.)

Wyatt had been gentle and sweet and eager to please when he took her to bed, and Lucy knows that with one word from her, Flynn would be the same. But it’s not what she wants. She wants to shake, to burn, to drown, and come out whole again. She wants to be touched as though she’s iron, not glass. 

She wants someone to believe she’s strong enough for that.

“Lucy—” Flynn’s voice is wrecked once more when he breaks the kiss, as his hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise. “Are you—”

She cuts him off before he can finish, letting the way she kisses him and shoves him back on the bed say enough. He doesn’t try to say another word after that. 

If being with Wyatt was like a lazy summer afternoon out in the sun, fucking Flynn is like being caught in a cyclone. His hands rasp over her bare skin, rough touches that set her nerves alight, but never lingering any one place long enough to let her get used to the sensation. He uses his teeth liberally, leaving her skating the edge of pleasure and pain when he leaves several marks that she knows will be red and visible in the morning light. He teases—bringing her to the edge more than once, only to withdraw, until she’s so frustrated she could scream. 

(But through it all, she can’t help coming back to his eyes. Even when dark with desire, they’re calm. Steady. Sure. And when she feels too wild, too thrown about, she only has to catch those eyes to stabilize.)

“Flynn—” It’s him who cuts her off with a kiss when she comes, pulsing around him where he remains hot and hard inside her. A few slick thrusts later and Flynn swears against her mouth as he finds his own release. 

As they come down together, breathing hard, Lucy waits for him to say something. That he regrets it. That is was a mistake. That they shouldn’t have done it. 

He never does. 

“We should sleep,” Flynn says instead, reaching past her to pull the blanket back over them. “We still have to find Rufus and Connor in the morning.” 

Lucy lets him pull her closer—when she rests her head on his chest, she can hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Stable. 

“Flynn?” 

“Yes?”

“What do you want from me?” She asks quietly, an echo of their earlier conversation. But this time, she isn’t angry. 

Flynn tips her chin up so she can meet his eyes. 

“Nothing that you aren’t willing to give.”

It’s a good answer. It’s exactly what she needs to hear. 

_Sometimes, I feel like I know you better than you know yourself._

Somehow, that thought isn’t quite as terrifying as it was.


End file.
